


Sentimentality

by donotforgetme24601



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-24
Updated: 2013-10-24
Packaged: 2017-12-30 07:43:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1015959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/donotforgetme24601/pseuds/donotforgetme24601
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They have a home, it's just not here.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sentimentality

When Sherlock and Mycroft were kids, when it rained, they would run outside to the untended spot on the corner of their estate where the ground dips and collects puddles. Mycroft would bring his father's big black umbrella and hold it over Sherlock who--in a tricorn hat and with his blue scarf tied roguishly about his waist, ends trailing in the mud, impressionist brown paintings on blue cloth--would sail worn pirate ships made from faded dish rags and popsicle sticks on the surface of the largest puddle, and he would smell like wet vanilla and tea and rainwater and _home_. And Mycroft would be so enchanted, so inexplicably happy, that he wouldn't feel the cold or the wet or the way the mud devoured his boots. It became their place, their home, this spot just beyond the gardener's hand, this rain-drenched paradise where they could pretend that no one could see them. This was the only place they could go where they didn't feel judged or evaluated, where they could shed labels like onionskin coats, where they could just be Sherlock and Mycroft, just brothers.

Sherlock would come home with eyes stretched wide to keep from crying and bruises winding up his jaw--"No, mum, I just ran into a pole, no need to worry"--and he would slip his hand into Mycroft's and say, "I want to go home" and Mycroft would lead him to their spot and they would crouch in the tall grass and just sit, Sherlock winding his blue scarf around and around his hands, cutting off circulation, watching the way his pale hands grew mottled and red; Mycroft drawing in the dirt with the tip of his umbrella, tracing dragons and towers and dreams and _anything but this, anywhere but here_. Eventually Sherlock would draw in a deep breath and say, "I'm ready to go back" and he would put on his pride and arrogance and Mycroft would pull his iciness about him and they would walk back to the house with straight backs and long strides because they couldn't show weakness in front of their father, they _couldn't._

" _Sentimentality is a chemical defect found on the losing side_ ," he would say with biting scorn and sharp eyes and the practiced vehemence of someone reciting a well-worn lesson. "Do you want to lose?"

"No." They would answer dutifully, looking at each other through the shadows in the corners of their eyes and wondering if maybe there was something more important than winning.

They grew up and Mycroft kept his umbrella and Sherlock kept his scarf and neither of them would admit to missing it, to missing each other. They learned to hit where it hurt with measured words and sharp-toothed smiles; they developed crusts of permafrost and cutting comebacks and they learned to fool each other into believing they meant it.

_Sentimentality is a chemical defect found on the losing side._

They're losing each other, surely. But maybe sentimentality isn't what causes it, maybe that's just what makes it _hurt_. Mycroft wonders sometimes if Sherlock remembers, remembers bruises and rain and tall grass and thinking there was something more than winning, something more valuable. He remembers buying their old estate some years back, after Father died, keeping the house and grounds maintained, keeping their home untouched.

_Sentimentality is a chemical defect found on the losing side._

When Sherlock said it, all vulnerability thinly veiled behind scalpel-sharp words, his voice cutting medical incisions as though he could perform a surgery to remove weakness, Mycroft wanted to grab his scarf, force him to listen, force him to understand.

_You sound just like father_ , he wanted to say, to beg.  
 _I don't care about winning_  
 _I don't want to be like this_  
 _We can still change_  
 _We're still brothers_  
 _Come with me._  
 _I want to go home._  
 _I want to go home._  
 _I want to go HOME._  
 _I love you._  
He wanted to say, _please_ , and _make_ Sherlock understand. But he'd learned a long time ago that you can't _make_ Sherlock do anything.  
So he didn't say a word.

_Sentimentality is a chemical defect found on the losing side._

After Sherlock left, Mycroft laughed and laughed, the sort of bitter, barking laugh that happens when you don't feel like laughing at all. _Father was right, father was right,_ he chanted like a mantra, like it would keep him alive, tonguing out sharp, angry consonants, hitting the _t_ s with unnecessary force. He laughed until, at some unidentifiable point, he started crying, smelling wet vanilla and home, remembering blue scarves with muddy ends and shipwrecked popsicle stick boats. He wept for Sherlock and for himself, for their weak mother and broken father and for what they all had lost while they were just trying not to be on the losing side.

He typed out a text,  
 _I only ever cared about losing you. Come home. -MH_  
He never sent it.

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own Sherlock in any respect and receive no money for this work.


End file.
